Ptolemy's Gate

general outcry. Behind it all, the great Glass Palace cast illumination down upon the hectic lawns: across its projected slabs of light the people ran, the spirits bounded, the bodies fell, the breathless hunt went on.
    We paused under the arch, at the gateway to the park, taking it all in.
    Chaos, Nathaniel thought. It's CHAOS.
    It's nothing to a real battle, I said. You ought to have been at al-Arish, where for two square miles the sand dogged red. I gave him a mental picture.
    Lovely. Thanks for that. See Nouda?
    No. How many demons are there?
    Enough. [4] Let's go.

[4] There were probably forty or so. But when entering battle, a wise warrior deals with his enemies one by one.

He tapped his heel; the boots took wing. We launched ourselves into the fray.
    Strategy dictated that the spirits did not collectively notice our presence. One by one, we could fell them; facing them en masse would be a mite more tricky. Hence rapid-fire attacks and continual movement. Our first objective, close by on the lawns, was an afrit cloaked in the body of an elderly woman; uttering shrill whoops, it sent Spasms ricocheting among the crowds. In two strides we were behind it. The Staff pulsed. The afrit was a memory, sighing on the wind. We turned, moved. . . and were far off among the fairground stalls, where three strong djinn, plumply dressed in human skin, industriously toppled the Sultan's Castle. Nathaniel pointed the Staff and claimed them in a single greedy flash of light. We looked, saw: up by some trees, a rickety hybrid stalking a child—in three strides we had him in our sights. White fire consumed him. The child fled into the dark.
    We need help, Nathaniel thought, for the people. They're running round in circles.
    That's not our con — Yep; I see them. Go.
    A stride, a leap—we landed on a bandstand roof, spun round the central pole, fired the Staff four times. Three hybrids perished; the fourth, alerted by the others' deaths, dodged, jumped back. It spied us, sent a Spasm. The bandstand shook itself to splinters, but we had somersaulted clear, slid down a tent awning and, before our boots touched ground, reduced the culprit's essence to a twirl of dwindling sparks.
    A prickle of regret, a slackening of desire. Nathaniel hesitated. That. . . that was Helen Malbindi'll know it was. She's. . .
    She's been dead long since. You killed her killer. Shake a leg! There — by the lake! Those children. Quick — be swift!
    Best to keep moving. Best not to think of it. Fight on.[5]

[5] Had the boy been there alone, without my prompting presence, would he have acted with such speed against the bodies of his fellow ministers? Despite their deformities, their slack faces and oddly angled limbs, I doubt it. He was a human; always, always humans gravitate to surfaces.

Ten minutes passed; we stood beneath an oak tree in the center of the park. The remains of two djinn rose smoking from the earth.
    Notice anything about the spirits? I thought. I mean, what you can see of them.
    The eyes? I catch a glow sometimes.
    Yes, but also the auras. They seem bigger somehow.
    Meaning what?
    I don't know. It's like the human bodies aren't containing them so well.
    You think —
    The spirits Faquarl summoned are strong. Perhaps their feeding makes them stronger. If- —
    Wait. By the lake . . . And we were gone.
    Back and forth across the park we went, among the pavilions and pleasure grounds, the bowers and the walkways, wherever we saw the flash of predatory movement. Sometimes the djinn perceived us and fought back; more often we slew them unawares. The power of the Staff was irresistible, the seven-league boots carried us more swiftly than the enemy could see. Nathaniel was cold and resolute; with every minute he controlled the Staff with greater skill. As for me, whether or not it was the adrenaline we shared, I began to enjoy myself hugely. I slowly awoke again to the old bloodlust, to the fierce joy of combat that I'd known in early Egypt's wars, when the utukku of Assyria marched from the deserts and the gathering vultures blotted out the sky. It was the love of speed and cleverness, of defying death and dealing it; it was the love of carrying out new exploits that would be told and sung around the campfires till the sun went out. It was the love of energy and power.
    It was part of Earth's corruption. Ptolemy wouldn't have been pleased.
    But it was a good deal better than being a pyramid of slime.
    I noticed something and gave a